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COPYRIGHT DEPOSm 



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¥mwm&JJg LE^VE3, 



BY 



( lather the leaves in the Autumn time 

Ciather the leaves in Spring; 
(irttherthe leaves in the Summer clays 

When brooks and birdies sing ; 
Gather the leaves ere the winter snow 

Falls on their red and gold ; 
So their purple and green shall brighten 

The days that are wild and cold. 





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TECUMSEH, MICH.: 

lERALU STEAM PRINTING HOUSHf, 

5. C. STACY, PROPRIETOR 



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COPYRIGHTED BY THE 

AUTHORS IN WASHINGTON, D. C 

1881. 







-BY- 

A Little Story of a Little Life. 

TTl^^o^t two years ago, there came into my life a 
/^little girl not yet ten years old, a little girl 
(Ethel B. I'^ox) so much like Margaret Fuller in 
certain characteristics as to astonish her friends, 
with her suggestions of thought, and her sweet, 
far-reaching sympathies. 

As I looked upon this dainty little creature, on 
that Sabbath afternoon, (sitting on her low otto- 
man by the side of her sick mother) and saw the 
delicate white face, with the large lustrous spirit- 
ual eyes and the heavy, overhanging, forehead, 
shaded by the soft, fine sunny hair, she reminded 
me of N. P. Willis' description of Vickie Greely. 

As the months went on, and I knew her more 
intimately with the observation that we call an 
acquaintance, my first impression of her nature 
was strengthened ; although she was a real lively 



little creature — full of sport and frolic — fond to 
the greatest extreme of her little companions, 
her physical organization was constantly feeding 
her brain, indeed that seemed to be its only busi- 
ness ; and I have often thought that her soul 
handled her delicate little physical system very 
much as the thought of the artist controls the 
pencil, or that of the mechanic the needed imple- 
ments. So that it was really a sychological phil- 
osophical study to understand just how far this 
being of flesh and blood ministered to this soul 
or brain of thought, and had for the mental sys- 
tem returned the power and kept more, and blood 
and muscle in action, when from each and all, 
every particle of healthy life had departed. 

Had one* believed in the transmigration of 
souls, one might have thought the mind of some 
old philosopher had entered at birth this dainty, 
delicate organism, so readily did the child go to 
results and conclusions, or one might have thought 
that some spirit from Paradise had taken upon it- 
self flesh and blood, with such intuitive percep- 
tion did she see the impossible ,,ties of human 
action, and the causes of human imperfection. 

I remember once, as I was sitting in her pres- 
ence, some one with very kind intention, related 
a very unkind and cruel deed in the life of a cer- 
tain individual; after a moment little Ethel 
looked up — her great eyes so full of the infinite 
sympathy — and said ; "Poor man ! I suppose he 



I either did not know any better, or he had not the 
desh-e to do any better. How I pity him. Now 
I hope he will sometime have both the desire and 
the knowledge." 

As I listened, I thought the child said very 
much as God said ; but the great mystery to me 
was, how she came by the thought — the express- 
ion, and the sympathy, that can seldom come to 
any mind or heart except with the coming years. 
This perception and consideration seemed to 
reach out, and reach down through all circum- 
stances and conditions. If a child could not 
wear fine clothes, she saw the why. If a girl 
or hoy wasn't good, she understood the wherefore. 
All the little perplexities, and all the great sor- 
rows of life were fused in this crucible of her 
heart and her judgement. 

The pressure of the panic had weighed consid- 
erably upon her, and one day she said to me : 
'T am getting so fond of eggs that I am afraid 
I am going to be a great expense to papa. it 
will cost papa so much to Iniy me four eggs a day 
now, when eggs are twenty-eight cents a dozen ! 
l>ut papa says he and mamma have only one little 
girl, and she can have everything she wants. But 
I don't know ! Do you think I better eat so many 
when its such hard times, too ?" 

After my answer, she continued, "Vou under- 
stand, don't you, that my dear papa has to keep 
all the time at work, to get me so much ? He 



must go to the office any way ; and sometimes 
mamma has to go and help too, because Willie is 
a boy, and Mac can't be editor and type-setter 
and printer, and do everything ; and mamma 
comes and kisses me and says, "Good-bye darl- 
ing, mamma will come back, just as soon 
as she can ! And then I think I am wicked and 
selfish, because you see, if I did not have so much 
perhaps they would not have to work so hard ; 
and the paper must be kept up, or I can't have so 
many comforts. Did ever anybody have such a 
dear mamma and papa ?" 

After a moment she added, "I am getting real 
cross, too ! Oh, I suppose so I None but God 
knows how I suffer. I am ashamed sometimes, 
when I remember how much Jesus suffered — how 
patient he was. But mamma and papa know 
that I always mean to please." A few weeks 
before her departure, I found her among her 
pillows, writing — as she said — "a composition up- 
on Table Manners," and said as I was sitting at 
her side in the twilight, just one week from the 
night before her death — as she reclined upon her 
pillows she said to me that she had not yet finish- 
ed that composition ; but she should try to do so, 
because she thought that it was a subject of im- 
portance — a subject that few people, and especial- 
ly little folks like herself seldom considered ; and 
she felt it a pleasure to say her little say about 
it." 



But I presume she left this last literary work 
untinished. 

Her infantile nature was expressed in this visit 
by the desire to hold my watch. After turning 
it over and over in her wasted fingers — putting it 
to her ear to listen to its talk — keeping it quietly 
in the hollow of her hand, she gave it back to 
me saying : 

'•This watch has rested me ever so much." 
Then came the sudden change from the 
child to the sage, or the angel — or the mysterious 
something — the hidden power in this little girl. 

Turning her wee, wan face to the window, 
through which the first star-beams glistened upon 
her pillows, she said, "I don't know how it is 
going to be to be with me this spring. The doc- 
tors have done all they can for rne. Papa and 
mamma have done everything. Everybody is so 
good. Perhaps the spring — when the days get 
bright and warm, and the gra,ss is green, and the 
winds are soft, and full of health, and the flowers 
are out — will bring me health ? If they don't, 
I shall go to the Land of a brighter Spring. To 
the world where, dear little sister Blanche is. And 
I am certain I shall know her there ! Don't you 
think so ?" and then, without waiting for my an- 
swer, she continued : "O yes I could not help 
knowing her !" 

After a moment, she looked me full in the face 
and said with great emphasis, "My dear 



I like a christian ! I don't like people always to 
think and say 'Our chin-ch, and our creed I' but 
'Christ's church, and Christ's creed.' I do love a 
christian I" and then said, "I did not know hov. 
it was going to he with me. But I trust God. 
He has brought me through so far, and he will b.e 
with me to the end. I do not know what I 
should have done if it had not been for Jesus. 

Dear little lamb ! Feeling alvA^ays about her, the 
arms of the Good Shepherd. 

And so the days wore on, until the night of the 
15th of April, when she knew that the hour for 
great change had come ; and yet, without any al- 
lusion to death or the grave, she made arrange- 
ments for her departure ; fjeslowed all her little 
presents — taking in her hand, as the last gift, her 
little hat, she said, "My best of mammas, give 
this to my dear cousin Bell." 

Wearied, she whispered "Good-night," and fell 
into slumber. Thg next day, at intervals she re- 
peated the Lord's Prayer, and the 22d Psalm. 
She requested a friend to make her a wreath of 
flowers, and a bouquet for her hatnd ; and by 
her delicacy of spirit, and sweet religious trust 
lifted this last, sad scene of death and the grave 
into a vision of beauty and of trust. 

And at the last, when the early sunrise flooded 
the hills and the valleys, this little child went out 
through the shining Gate-way, into the ^eternal 
the better Land. 

Copyriglited_l)y the Authorb. 



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Mother's Old Pincusliion. 



TTOW ragged and old it is ! How the soft silk 

J Alms worn away, down nearly to the glass hold- 
[ er, leaving only the little red woolen cushion with 
I its many needle and pin holes 1 Yesterday I 

took it in my hands and said I would re-cover it; 

but ah ! my heart failed me. Nineteen years ago 
^ mother went to sleep under the fading summer 
I blossoms, and this little cushion stood upon her 
I workstand, with the needles threaded for her 
! busy fingers ; and through all the years since then 
\ it has been my right-hand friend in my hours of 

making and mending. No wonder it has become 
j worn, and that it needs new silk, and new ribbon; 
' for the flowers have blossomed and faded many a 



I time since that morning, and the winters' snows 
! have fallen again and again over the hands that 
j clung to mine, as the soul fled away from its 
j earthly tenement to the home of the redeemed. 
j Yea stay yet upon the table, cushion, so soiled 
and worn ; stay in the remains of the bright 
j beauty in which mother's fingers dressed, a sa- 
i cred memento of the past — of the beautiful days 
I when the father and the mother kept the pleasant 
I and the happy home and the children gathered 
I there, sweet and pure and happy, dearer to each 
I other than all the world beside — before sorrow 
I had touched us, or' distance had separated us ; ere 
j the cruel cares and anxieties of life had fallen 
' over us, or m.isfortune had wrapped us about 
j with his heavy mantle, or death with his relent- 
j less hand had -taken our dearest and our best. 
Yea, stay ! Every time my eyes rest upon you my 
fingers touch you, my heart grows whiter and 
tenderer, and I get nearer the loved in heaven. 



1 



Copyrighted bj' the Authors. 



ijiijn 




Pale Jennie Moore sat by her wheel 

Beside lier cabin door, 
x\nd from the spindle drew the thread, 

And spun it o'er and o'er. 

F'air May-pinks opened at her step, 
Meek daisies, white and still ; 

The sweet-brier lifted up its leaves. 
And blossomed at the sill. 

The woodbine o'er the brown old log.^, 

In clustering tendrils crept, 
Where sunbeams nestled in the morn, 

And birds at evening slept. 

The river wound below the yartl. 

And o'er its waters clear, 
The murmur of the village talk 

Fell softened on the ear. 

iTACY Bkothisrs, Tkixticks, Tec'uiiiseh, Michigai 



Behind the cabin, hill on hill 

Rose upward in the air, 
Crowned with great docks and evergreens, 

And eagles nested there. 

All through the spring and summertime, 

And 'neath the autumn's sun, 
Pale Jennie sat beside her wheel, 

A singing as she spun. 

And ever, ever on her lips. 

Was one familiar tune, 
And ever floated off these words. 

Sweet as bird songs in June. ' 

"Life must have patience, sweet and brave. 

Our watch-care we must keep ; 
God's guarding hand will never tire. 

His love v/ill never sleep. 
How can we ask to be forgiven, 

Unless we will forgive ? 
It is by helping other souls, 

That we too learn to live." 

Through months and years sweet Jennie spun. 

Through months and years she sung ; 
And good folks wondered at the peace 

That trembled on her tongue. 
Her face was worn, as if some grief 

Its early beauty cross' d. 
And such a yearning in her eyes. 

As though for something lost. 



Vou would not think that one >o frail 

Could toil so many hours, 
You saw she needed cherishing, 

As do most precious flowers. 

But when the morning meal was done, 

The dishes put away, 
And Dollie in the stable fed, 

And Dobbin had his hay, 

The children sent away to school 

With faces fair and sweet, 
And little bare, bro\\n, dimpled hands, 

And busy, bare, brown feet, 

Did Jennie bring her little wheel 

Close to the cabin door, 
And from the spindle drew the thread, 

And spun it o'er and o'er. 
For Reubin in the promise failed, 

Made in this vanished youth ; 
He fell away from manliness. 

From goodness, and from truth. 

He loved the low, rough, drinking sliops. 

The idlers on the street. 
He never thought, with comfort, how 

To make the years' ends meet ; 
So Jennie fed the little ones. 

And ted poor Reubin too ; 
Aud all the more that Reubin failed, 

The more did Jennie do. 



Many a cold, bleak, winter night, 
Slie wandered o'er the moor, 

(3r up and down the village street, 
To lead him to the door ; 

And one night — one bleak, fearful night, 
When wild spring floods were high, 

And wind and rain beat all about. 
And no stars in the sky. 

She wandered through the cabin rooms, 

For Reubin was away. 
And murmured, oh, so anxiously : 

"Why does he, does he stay ?" 

The fire burned clear upon the hearth. 

The children sweetly slept. 
And Jennie, wandering out and in, 

Her watcli of terror kept. 

'Twas midnight, and beside the fire, 

Her eyes so sad and dim. 
She stood, and said, "I will not go, 

I've borne enough for him !" 
But somehow — though in Reubin no 

Beauty could she see — 
Her heart looked back upon his face, 

Once fair as fair could be. 
And so she brought her lantern out. 

And fastened on her hood. 
And folding 'round her shawl, she said 

She'd find him if she could. 



Slie luinied downward througli the yard, 

And Im.stened swiftly on, 
l>ut when she came unto the stream, 

Oh, woe ! the bridge. was gone. 

An old log, wet and moss-grown lay, 

The surging waters o'er. 
Anil over it with slow, steady feet 

She reached the further shore. 

Then up the road-side, guided by 

Her lantern's fitful gleam, 
She sought for Reubin in his sin. 

And led him to the stream ; 
And cheerfully and brave, she said, 

"Now don't you frightened be, 
And Reubin don't you speak a word. 

But trust yourself to me." 
And when she helped him to their home. 

And coaxed him to come in. 
And saw how safe the children slept 

Amid the storm's wild din. 
And thought how she and Reubin were led 

Along those dangerous ways, 
She fell upon her knees and cried, 

"Dear God I give thee praise." 
Next morning Reubin was not well. 

He said he could not go 
Up to the shops ; and Jennie prayed 

That Cxod would keep him so. 



The months went by, and other months, 

And yet must Reubin wait, 
But one day, he went slowly out 

To mend the garden gate ; 

And soon the old bars he put up, 
And then the fences round ; 

And finally he fell to work 
A tilling of the ground. 

And now all comforts come to them. 

Like blessings daily sent, 
Jennie would think about the shops, 

But Reubin never went. 
For all his \^•ords gre\^' tenderer. 

And all his ways grew mild. 
And his once purple face took on 

The sweet look of a child. 
And Wisdom gently took his hand. 

And Faith became his guide, 
And Love and Mercy floated down, 

And journeyed at his side. 

And Jennie put the wheel away. 
And she grew wondrous fair, 

A golden halo seemed to float 
Around her soft, brown hair. 

Her eyes were like sweet violets 
Wet with the morning dew ; 

And you could see upon her cheeks. 
The roses breaking through. 



And Reuljen sits at eventide 

Beside the cabin door, 
And holds his grandson on his knee, 

And tells him o'er and o'er, 

How once, a poor man, he was lost 
On life's bewildering track, 

And how with firm and tender hand, 
Dear Grandma led him back. 



'^ 



Copyrighted by the authors at Washington, D. C. 



i'tetttoi A s^^v^. 




fIfHE dear old school days! Have any of us 
•*- forgotten to look Sack at you ? Have any of 
us forgotten how we used to both like and dislike 
you ? You — our only source of trouble — our only 
hope too, of wisdom I 

What tears, what trials, what quarrels! But 
we never can forget you. We must always re- 
member you, from the first day when we stood, a 
little, tnanly, piece of humanity, at our teacher's 
side, and tried to leavn our letters. Oh, that poor 
teacher ! experience has shown us what she must 
have suffered, to that day, when we stood with 
our feet just touching the border-land of woman- 
hood, when the skies were all golden, and the 
earth a valley of pearls. 

And ye teachers of the days beautiful ! We re- 
member you all ; from the district schoolmaster 
with his thread -bare coat, and the preceptress of 
the boarding-school with her cork-screw curls. 



who insisted in having us get up at precisely six 
in the morning ; from the Italian master, with his 
splendid eyes, and the little French dame, who 
never could sit still ; up the ascending years, to 
the grand, good man, who gave us the last kind 
word in the temple of knoMdedge, and saw us go 
out, our eyes dim with the heart's sweet deed, to 
try the onward pathway of the years. 

Ours was a hard struggle for what so many 
seem to gain with so little labor. The multipli- 
cation table was no easy task. Cube root was al- 
most given up in despair ; and it was deep and 
heavy flowing through the moods and tenses of 
that old grammar. How we waded through pres- 
ent tense, with its loves, its joys, and its blues, all 
at once ! The past, with so many pleasant, so 
many sad remembrances. The future, witli its 
sun-gilt castles builded to be only ruins. Oh, 
that wonderful future tense ! It always brought to 
our mind, that musical measure in " Locksley 
Hall :" 

" When I dipped into the future, far as human 
eye could see, 

vSaw the vision of the world, and all the won 
der that could be." 

Dear old school days ! Our radiant present is 
now the memorial past ; and the future into which 
we are dipping, and along which our vision floats, 
is indeed the wonder-land of unsolved, and prob 
lematical mystery. Beautiful, early days ! Your 



glory reaches onward, and blends with the num- 
berless days, that make the school eternal. 



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c'^—^l'/L. <£z T^..^£^ 



JOHNNY AND ME. 

" Please, mam, take Johnny and me," exclaim- 
ed a little dark-eyed girl, with the hectic roses 
upon her cheeks, as she sat in her child's rocking 
chair, in the beautiful " Home of the Friend- 
less." " Please, mam, do take Johnny and me !" 

Bending my cool face to hers, and laying my 
hand upon her fevered head, I asked : " Deary, 
who is Johnny ?" " O, that's Johnny !" she an- 
swered, with a sweet, innocent laugh. " Don't 
you know Johnny ? He's my baby brother. No- 
body now but Johnny and me. Please, mam, you 



said you took a little girl — a poor, little girl — for 
your child. Oh, mam ! was she so poor as John- 
ny and me ? We should love her so rnuch. We 
could play with her too ; and have good things to 
eat, and to wear. We could work,' Johnny and 
me could ; and we'd help you, and love you so 
much ! Wouldn't we, Johnny ?". 

And the loving little creature pointed over to a 
corner of the room where a baby-boy of two years 
old, with great dreamy, blue eyes, and soft au- 
burn curls around a thin, white face, stood lean- 
ing upon the shoulder of another sick child, sit- 
ting in a little chair. 

I was not able to open a Home for little orphans 
and I could not take the children av/ay with me. 
as little Mary clung to my dress with her small, 
Avhite fingers, and cried again and again, " Please, 
mam, do take Johnny and me." But I knew 
that soon they would go to sleep among the hills, 
and among the dappled shadows of Elmwood, in 
beautiful Mount Elliott, or amid the more distant 
silence of Woodmore. And I wonder, to-night, do 
any but wild-flowers grow above their little graves ? 
Do human hearts ever watch there ? Does hu- 
man love ever go there to pray ? I shall never 
know ; but I do know that Our Father finds his 
little ones without human v/ord ; without stone, 
or shrub, or blossom. 

Copyrighted in 1881 by the Authors. 



— BY— 

JULIA TORNESDILL'S LESSON. 

"My God! To find him here!" exclahned a 
tall, black-bearded, black-eyed man, as he enter- 
ed one of those bright, glittering "saloons" that 
open from one of the pleasant streets of a large 
inland town. Throwing the door wide open be- 
fore him, he hurried across the room and bending 
over a low couch, he put his hand lightly, and 
with a tender touch upon the flushed forehead of 
a beautiful young boy, whom a careless gazer 
might have thought had fallen into a sweet slum- 
ber among the soft, luxuriant pillows. But this 
man knew that this was not "tired Nature's sweet 
restorer," although the golden curls lay about 
the blue-veined forehead like a flood of glory, and 
the sunny fringes pressed softly against cheeks, 
where roses were wont to bud and blossom, and 
the delicate lips parted to reveal the thread of 



coral that they could not hide, and the arms fold- 
ed, as though in rest, above the throbbing heart — 
yet he knew — this father — that some fiend, wear- 
ing human form, had brought this slumber upon 
his brave, proud boy, his beautiful first-born. As 
he failed to awaken with a gentle touch he turned 
about, and for a moment looked earnestly around 
him. By the side of his boy stood a smail black- 
walnut table containing papers and periodicals ; 
across the room were several card tables ; against 
the walls were various lounges and easy chairs ; 
while in numerous bright niches, and quaint little 
alcoves were dainty stands with porcelain glasses 
and large beer tumblars ; large bronze chandeliers 
of curious workmanship, cast a flood of light 
around him, filling the room v/ith a sort of shim- 
mering brightness and sending clear, attractive 
rays through the crimson curtains, and through 
the heavy window glass, out to the passers by on 
the crowded street. As he stood there, with one 
hand upon the forehead of the wayward boy, a 
young man stepped behind the table in one of 
the bright little nooks and filling a delicate glass 
with a bright, foaming fluid, lifted it with his jew- 
elled hand, and reaching it towards him, said, 
with a smile that was intended to win : "Very 
pleasant to the taste, sir. Try a drop if you 
please." Without a reply, the father turned, lift- 
ed his boy in his arms, and hastened from the 
room. G.oing swiftly over the pavement, he turned 



k 



into a broad rural street where the ehii trees 
cast their shade, and where the perfume of the 
lilac blooms was out upon the aii-. As he folded 
the young helpless form closer to the pitying fath- 
ers heart, he murmured, "Who could have done 
it ? Who could have been cruel enough to en- 
tice our boy into a place like that ?" Then he 
paused, while his strong frame trembled beneath 
his light burden, as a voice whispered, "Ah ! 
must you wait for this — even for yours to be slain 
by the tempter, before you could give heart, and 
word, and deed for the destruction of that fearful 
enemy, who is crueller than war, and deadlier 
than the poison of the nightshade ?" As he 
heard, he lifted his face heavenward, and his lips 
moved gently, as though he had offered up a vow 
to be registered by angels in the Book of Life. 

"How can I take him to his mother ? To lose 
him for two long days and nights and then to find 
him in a sleep like this ! And he only fifteen years 
old ! My poor, dear boy ! Poor, dear mother !" 
He had just entered the gate of the broad, beau- 
tiful yard that led to his home, uttering the words 
just mentioned, when a woman ran hastily to him, 
and reaching out her arms, exclaimed, "Oh, hus- 
band, you have found him. Is he dead?" 

"No, Julia, our boy is not dead ; perhaps our 
mourning were less bitter if he were," and as she 
drew near to him, with that look of terror upon 
her white face, and those little short sobs of grief 



breaking up from her tired heart — as she drew 
near and wound her arms about them both — her 
boy and his father — he bent his head and kissed 
her upon her forehead, repeating the words he 
had so lately uttered, "Poor, dear mother." 

When they had entered the house, and laid him 
upon the sofa in the large, luxuriant parlor, and 
stood side by side,looking down upon him — upon 
him, their beautiful brave boy, the wife put her 
hand upon her husband's arm and asked, " Where 
did you find him /" 

"At Rikard's," was his only answer ; and then 
they chafed the hands and bathed the forehead, 
and after a short time the large, blue eyes opened 
and immediately closed again as they looked up- 
on the face ot his father, while a flush deeper than 
crimson crept from his forehead to his neck, but 
suddenly a soft voice bore upon its ti^embling ac- 
cents, "Mother you will not hate me ?" Quickly 
the mother's arms folded about him,and she cried, 
"Never! my precious darling, never !" and soon, 
the father, in a voice trembling beyond his con- 
trol, asked, "My boy have you no word for me ?" 
"Oh, father ! I have brought such shame upon 
you, you never can forgive me !" 

"My son, it would take much more than this to 
turn your father's heart against you. I do, most 
freely forgive you." 

"Oh, father ! thank you. May I never bring 
you such sorrow again." 

"God grant you never may, my boy." 



"Mother ! mother !" exclaimed the boy, as he 
threw his arms around her and curled his sunny 
young head against her bosom, as though it was 
the dear old resting-place from sorrow and sin ; 
while she drew her fingers over the fair curls, ca- 
ressingly, as though he was an infant — sadly and 
tenderly as though he were in his coffin. 

Julia Tornsdill had been a happy wife and 
mother. She knew no wearing toil, no anxious 
care. Love had led her every foot-step and filled 
with rainbow radiance her whole life. Her hus- 
band stood, a rock of defense between her and 
the world, and through him must that world strike 
before it could harm her. With him, she thought 
herself and children safe from every danger. In 
this bright boy she had gloried, as mothers seldom 
glory. In the gentle affectionateness of his na- 
ture, she saw the promise of a beautiful life, and 
in his great mental gifts she beheld a genius, that 
should yield mellow fruitage. She had kept no 
watch for a shadow upon his name — no thought 
for a sorrow upon his heart. What wonder then 
that her grief was sharp as it was sudden ? What 
wonder that her spirit shrank from the unexpec- 
ted burden now laid upon it ? 

The night deepened ; the boy, clasping in his 
hands a hand of father and mother, fell away 
from his unnatural restlessness into a gentle slum- 
ber, and as they — the father and mother — watched 
the pleasant sleep and rejoiced so much that they 



had found him, the mother said, softly and in a 
voice that at first was so full of regret, but finally 
deepened and strengthened into firm resolve, "I 
can see now how utterly selfish I have been. How 
utterly thoughtless, too. So many wandering in 
the downward road, and never any hand reached 
out to lead them back. So many drunkard's 
wifes and children praying for comfort and for 
help, and never I, with a cup of cold water or a 
word of love ! Did it need mine to show me how 
much I should have done ? how much I must yet 
do ? My husband let us pledge ourselves to an 
eternal warfare against this foe of mankind, and 
this destroyer of happy homes ;" and the morn- 
ing broke upon two hands clasped for a united 
labor in the Work that has the blessing of God 
and the love of every good heart ; for the sur- 
geon's blade had cleft only to the sweet fountains 
and the singing waters. 



Copyrighted by the authors at Washingtou, D. C 



?t^lE| ^^P Lft^f^^ 



, i^L. cSs :d.. ^-^ 



FRIENDSHIP. 



It is not a very large word, is it ? But when you | 
use it, do you ever think how much it con- | 
tains ? . Real true friendship ! how often do you \ 
find it? How many to day are ready to exclaim 
with Ralph Hoyt, [ 

"And Friendship, rarest gem of earth, 
(Who e're hatli found the jewel his) 
FraiJ, fickle, false, and little worth, 
Who bids for friendship as it is?" 
The friendship of the world ! look at it for a 
moment, how long does it remain ? of how 
much value is it ? how many kind words does it 
ever speak, when the cruel finger of slander is 
pointed toward us ? How often does it lend a 
helping hand v/hen a great financial crisis comes 
to us, and our earthly goods are swept away by 
its sea-like flood ? How much compassion does 
it show for the poor criminal, who has perhaps 



committed a forgery ? In its eagerness to inflict 
punishment, does it ever consider the circumstan- 
ces that led to such a crime? Does it ever wait 
and watch, to get a glimpse behind the curtains ? 
There may have been a hungry family and no 
bread, no work, and no money. Sometimes how- 
ever, when it does consider these things, it is only 
willing to cry, "No matter, he's a thief, away 
with him." And should there be found no cause 
for pardon, and the act seems to have been com- 
mitted in sheer willfulness, it does not stop to 
consider that years ago, this sin-hardened man 
was only an innocent boy, who never dreamed of 
wrong. Did it then when the tempter came, offer 
I any word of admonition? Alas,it was only too will- 
ing to offer greater temptation. 

The friendship of popularity, what does it avail, 
but for a few words of flattery ? Does it ever 
bring out the nobler spirit within us ? Does it 
ever give us greater self respect ? Yet, how we 
yearn for it. What efforts we put forth to gain it. 
How the very happiness of some seems to depend 
upon it, But how uncertain it is. How ready 
to cast us aside for a new favorite. The friend- 
ship that wealth brings, what of that, when for- 
tune ceases to throw over us the radiance of her 
bright countenance ? 

There are some people we envy perhaps, they 
seem 'to have so many friends, but if they 
were told of it, we are afraid they would answer 



r 



as did the Roman philosopher, that"His acquaint- 
ances would lill a large cathedral, but a" very small 
pulpit would hold his friends." 

What was the inscription written by Byron, on 
the tombstone of his dog. Boatswain? We remem- 
ber the last two lines. 

"To mark a friend's remains, th'^se stones arise, 
I never knew but one, and here he lies." 

And now we have seen of how little worth is 
the so called friendship of the world, we can also 
see how foolish it is for us to order our lives to 
its pleasing. How foolish to try to suit its whims, 
its \\eaknessess, and too often, its sins. We can 
see that the only sure, and honorable, and truly 
successful way is to take the truth in one's hand, 
and go straight forward to the right, conscien- 
tiously and affectionately building a character 
that the faith of the public can neither make nor 
max. 

There are such friends — friends who step 
bravely forward, and call you friend, although the 
whole world would hold them in derision, friends 
who would receive in their own hearts the arrows 
aimed at your's. You who chance to have 
such friends, ah, be careful that you appreciate 
them, for their friendship is indeed to be prized 
far above rubies, or the gold of Ophir. 



— BY— 

THE OLD BROWN CHURCH. 

Ohall we tell you about that old brown church ? 
f^ How it stood down in the valley, just a mile 
from our little village. Why the church had not 
been built in the village, or the village 
was not built around the church no one could tell. 
Some thought it would be an improvement if we 
built a new church in the village ; but we were 
not very ambitious people in those days and oth- 
ers said the old church would last a good many 
years yet, and one church was enough ; so the 
subject was dropped, and no one thought of it 
afterward. But we are forgetting ourselves — we 
were going to tell you about the church ; how the 
old roof was covered with moss, and how the ivy 
had crept over the doors and windows, and one 
little vine — being of a more enterprising spirit 



:';in the rest, had found its way through a small 
I crevice over the old door, and began to show its 
I <Treen leaves, and twine itself around the ceiling, 
I'd once came very near making its way to the 
'ulpit ; but as that >vas not a success, it must have 
concluded that it would not do to be too ambi- 
tious, for it did not continue its journey. Oh that 
old pulpit 1 liow it used to be our childish, terror ; 
how we taxed our immaginations about its being 
up so high, and wondered how it could possibly 
be kept in its place ; how we trembled .every 
time our good minister went up those funny little 
steps, and would hide our faces under Aunt Jane's 
drab shawl, until we were assured by his giving 
out the hymn that all was safe ; and he had not 
fallen off. And that minister, blessings on his 
gray hairs, there never was, nor ever can be, 
another such a man. Good 1 why he was good 
all over. Every bit of him was good. His peo- 
ple idolized him — and in fact, no one knew him 
but to love him. Strangers used to tell us that it 
\\ as our minister we worshipped, not our Maker. 
«' 111 ! but he is at rest now, sleeping the sleep that 
knows no waking, under the sod and the dew, 
just in the shadow of -the old church, where he 
spent so many years in teaching of Him, who died 
to save the world ; in teaching his people that 
Christianity was that beautiful spirit that leads one 
to pray with his closet door shut, and to love his 
neighbor as himself; without talking of his 



prayers or telling the dear neighbor of his love 
every time he met him ; and not that feeling of 
Phariseeism, that offers up long prayers every 
day in the sight of the multitude, and is continu- 
ally preaching the golden rule, and when in the 
presence of others considers itself too good, for 
the foolish weak pleasures of this world ; because 
he thought people with the latter spirit were con- 
tinually thanking God, that they were not as oth- 
ers were, and then how he always helped the 
poor, and led them gently along to better ways, 
by showing them that the very poorest man, who 
gave all he had to give, was of as much value in 
tfte sight of the Lord, as the rich man, who gave 
his thousands, and had plenty left. Yes, he not 
only taught them with words, but he did as he 
would have them do ; and if those he prayed for, 
and those he loved, were one half as good as he, 
when they stood on the brink of death's softly 
murmuring stream, they did not fail to 

"See the white banuers afloat on the tide, 

And the dipping oars silver gleam 
While the heavenly angel rowed them on, 

To the green ol' the better shore." 

Oh ! those were pleasant Sabbaths, when we 
all went to the old brown church, and every one 
carried his dinner and staid till afternoon meet- 
ing. What a buzz till the minister went into the 
pulpit ! then the pleasure of eating the cold din- 
ner, and during the short hour before service. 



when some of the farmers, to the great discomfort 
of then- wives, persisted in talking about the 
damp weather, and the price of wheat and oats, 
and farmers and miller would sit in the shade of 
the elm tree, just behind the church and make a 
bargain about farmers' corn ; then the afternoon 
sermon, and the little girl who sat behind us and 
wore a blue dress, and had, O, such curls ! how 
we used to give her rosy cheeked apples, and 
peppermint candies ; when Aunt Jane was not 
looking ! What would we not give for one hoflr 
of that youthful joy. As we look back upon that 
life now, it seems to have been but one perpetual 
pleasure ; yet how we used to think, if we only 
were a man ! and how we used to pout our lips, 
when Grandpa would put back the curls from our 
forehead, and say, "Your young days are your 
best, my . boy." Well we thought, "Grandpa 
dosen't know ;" so we excused ourselves by say- 
ing, "It's been so long since Grandpa was a boy, 
he has forgotten what a terrible trial it was to 
have mamma or Aunt Jane giving you a punch, 
every time you look around in church, or to have 
all the company ask you nothing else than 'Do 
you go to school, my good boy ?' " When,if you 
had only been a man, you could have talked 
about farmer Jones' barley, or the minister's sala- 
ry. Ah ! well we have found in later years, that 
Grandpa came very near the truth. Yes, we 
have had our joys and sorrows ; we are learnmg 



to take^the world as it is, not as it ougln to be. 
We art begining to learn that little folks arc just 
a little bit truer than the older ones. Now did 
we just mean that, NeLy ? For in those later 
years we did not forget the little girl with the 

brown curls, and she — ah, well 

"But, there's many a man has such dreams Nelly, 

In the dear May days ol his youth ; 
When the sky nears the bright tinge of gladness, 

And the world the sunshine of truth ; 
But too often these beautiful dreams, Nelly, 
'Are touched with the mildew of blight, 

And the vision alone, gilds his desolate years, 
Like abautiful rainbow of light." 




Copyrighted in 1881 by the Authors. 



Fl^attml MM' ^ii:^?^ft 




NOTHING TO WEAR.' 



UTj?THY do I not see you at church ?" I asked 
*x of a beautiful young wife and mother, a 
few days since, 

"O, I have nothing to wear," she answered, 
with such a sorrowful expression of countenance, 
that one not understanding her would have pited 
her poverty. "Nothing to wear !" I repeated af- 
ter her — looking at her dress of soft garnet meri- 
no with its trimmings of velvet, and its collar of 
soft thread lace, and the white ruffles at the 
wrist — "Why not wear that dress you are now 
wearing ?" 

"It is so old, and so much out of style. Fash- 
ions change so ! I want a new silk, and a splen- 
did set of seal-skins ; and I told Fred the other 
day, that I never would go to church again, until 
I had them, so that I could look as respectable as 
any of the ladies. And don't you think, the dear 



old soul said, that if he could possibly spare the 
money from his business, I should have them ?" 

As I looked into her bright young face, and 
listened to her words, my heart went back to a 
woman of almost royal presence ; a woman of 
means so vast, that her wish, in regard to worldly 
matters, needed only to be uttered, that it might 
be granted — and I remembered, how, as the 
spring once came on, and sickness and accumu- 
lated care came with it, the Sabbath found her 
with no new meeting apparel. As the hour for 
church drew near, her little daughter asked, 
"MaiTima, you don't go to church, do you ?" 

"Certainly, dear." 

"Your old bonnet and dress — are they not too 
warm, mamma ?" 

"Yes, dear." 

"What then, mamma ?" 

"My new shilling calico, and my shaker." 

The child laughed, clapped her hands, and 
running to her sister, said, "Mamma's coming 
out !" then turning her happy face to her mother, 
she exclaimed, "You'll look real sweet though, 



mamma 



When the mother came from her chamber in 
her shilling calico dress, and her white shaker, 
with its cape of brown braize, and its simple 
trimming of brown ribbon, and took her two little 
daughters by the hand, and said they were all 
ready now, her husband pushed the shaker back 



from her soft brown hair, just far enough to leave 
a kiss upon her thin pale cheek, as he said, 
"Margaret, you look as sweet and fair as a bonny 
maiden," and so they went to church, while the 
questioning eyes of many a friend rested upon 
this new garb, as well as the brightening eyes of 
the sorrowing and virtuous poor. The next Sob- 
bath two or three lone, needy widows, ventured 
in, in their plain garbs, and fuially, many others 
who had never been able to go to church, felt 
that they too, if this child of affluence was not 
ashamed to enter, and sit with them, in her plain 
garments. She went away a few years ago, to 
her woi-k in the heavenly country, but the good 
she had left behind her, the power of her beauti- 
ful influence, is still telling upon human souls, and 
shall go on through all the ages. 

Oh, v\'onien of wealth, make your churches 
something more than temples of luxury and mam- 
mon ! Make them so simple and so plain, that 
they need" neither bolt nor key, and that the way- 
farer, ragged and humble though he be, and the 
mourner and the stricken-hearted — yea, even the 
wandering outcast, thirsting for the balm, may at 
any, and at all hours, go in, and draw near to 
that great heart that never faileth. Go with such 
pure loving hearts so full of the infinite, bound- 
less sympathy — and in garments so womanly and 
so unostentatious, to your house of praise and of 
prayer, that al! the ignorant, and the suffering. 



and the poor shall not fear, but shall rejoice, to 
come in with you, that they may find it the way 
and the life — even the jaspar gate that opens for 
them upon the glories of heaven. 




Copyrighted by the Authors. 



w ^w-^ ^ 



FIiOTITING I'm LE?IYEg, ^ 



:L/£- cSa 3D. 



CHARITY. 



<<irrOW abideth Faith, Hope and Charily, these 
J*, three, but the greatest of these is Charity." 
Do you think that half the people in this world 
understand what that word Charity means ? 
Whether it means give or take ? We know of 
some, who seem to think that it means take, or 
else it is stricken out of their vocabulary entirely. 
Others think it is that sort of thing that gets peo- 
ple's nnmes in the newspaper ; that builds great 
colleges and gives thousands of dollars for rail- 
roads, or perhaps for Opera Houses and Theaters; 
that it means giving elegant presents, of course 
to people that have plenty without them ; that it 
means to talk and not to do, or to do great things, 
when you do anything. 



Such people remind us of the little girl, who, 
during the war, raised a certain sum of money 
among her school-mates to send to the soldiers, 
she herself giving ten dollars — the others gave 
— some more some less, but one little girl did not 
give but twenty-five cents, her father was poor, 
he did not move in the society that was called the 
"upper ten" of the city, and so she gave what she 
had to give, but instead of being pleased to think 
she gave her little mite, they call her selfish and 
tell her that she ought to be ashamed not to do 
more for the poor soldiers who were fighting to 
save their country ; and were coming home every 
day, sick, maimed and starving. And the rich 
little girl drew herself up proudly and said : "/ 
gave ten dollars, but, twenty-five cents, I wouldn't 
be so mean !" 

Now the sequel : Going home from school 
that night, the little girl that gave the ten dollars, 
found, sitting on the marble steps of her father's 
brown stone front, a poor weary looking man 
dressed in the uniform of a Union soldier, with a 
crutch by his side ; touching his old blue cap, he 
spoke to her pleasantly, and asked if he might 
have a little supper, for he was so hungry and sick 
and had no money. What did she do, did she 
bid him come in to rest and eat ? Not she ! gath- 
ering around her, her rich cloak,and straightening 
herself proudly up she bade him go away — tell- 
ing him that such a looking creature as he should 



not sit on her father's marble steps, and she 
would do nothing for him. So the poor soldier 
went his weary way. 

Now we often think of this young miss when 
we see people doing great things that will show, 
but never doing a real true deed of charity. 

But let us finish our story. The soldier had 
not gone far before he met our little twenty-five 
cent girl ; no need to ask alms from her before he 
received a bright smile. "What is the matter tfiy 
poor man ?" asked she, "are you sick ? you look 
very tired," and when he had told his story, she 
took him by the hand and led him — not to a brown 
stone front, but to a place where he found pleasant 
words, and when they gave him of what they 
had to eat and drink he almost forget that he was 
poor and lame ; then he went his way blessing 
our little girl for her kind acts. 

Which was charity my friends ? Was this the 
kind of charity of which v^^e first spoke ? We an- 
swer, no indeed, it was not ! This was the kind 
of charily St. Paul ment, when he said "Though 
I speak with the tongues of men and of angles 
and have not charity, I am become as sounding 
brass on the tinkling cymbal ;" Again he says : 
"Though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, 
and though I give my body to be burned and 
have not charity, it profiteth me nothing !" 

I don't think he means in that verse, the chari- 
ty that builds colleges and railroads ! I think he 



means the kind of charity, that He gave to Mary 
Magdalen, and to the sufifering poor everywhere. 
Now^ don't think I am saying anything against 
railroads and the like, because I am not, nor about 
those that give to them, for we need them ; and 
it is necessary and right that men give all that 
they can to help us to get them. But we don't 
call it charity, because for these things, people 
receive just as much benefit as they give. But do 
pA)ple always, in one sense of the word, get their 
reward for a few kind words or pleasant smiles, 
even when they are like the widows mite — their 
earthly all? And yet this is the only spirit of 
true charity. So let us try and think with Paul, 
that -'Though I could remove mountains and have 
not charity I am nothing." 




Copyrighted by the Authors. 



-SY- 

WHO WAS TO BLAiME? 

Over there — ^just across the road, opposite my 
window — witliin ear-sound, a fair, girlish face has 
leaned out, many and many a time to-night, over 
the window-sill ; and now, the clock (the town 
clock) strikes twelve ; and again the sweet face 
leans over, and looks far away, up the 1:)road 
street, and then down toward the avenue, and 
watches long and wistfully, and at la^t, with a 
weak tremulousness, that causes the dark curls to 
flutter against the dark throat — a tremulousness as 
though the heart had fainted out of very helpless- 
ness — the beautiful head lifts itself; the large 
eyes, so soft and dark, and sad, are covered with 
the white drooping lids, the dainty tear-bedewed 
cheek rests upon the window-sill, the arms reach 
up over the black, shining, moon-gilt hair, and 
the jeweled fingers clasp together with a gesture 
of despair. 

How still the night is. How bright the moon- 
glow. I can even hear the low, heart-filled sighs 
as they float across to me on the breath of the 



early morning. I can see her every gesture, even 
the fineness of her face arid its expression. 

The small hours wear on, and yet, the watcher 
waits. Anon, the air stirs with the tidings of the 
third hour of the morning; when, unsteadily, 
over the pavement, tread the gaitered feet of a 
handsome youth ; he pauses before the door, just 
under the window where the fair lady hath kept 
h>er watch. She vanishes away, but he hath seen 
the berutiful face, and terril)le words fall from his 
lips as reward for the devoted love that has waited 
to save him ; he fumbles in his pocket for a night 
key, but before he finds it the door falls back, the 
beautiful maiden stands upon the threshhold ; her 
face is full of tenderness — radiant with love ; she 
reaches her arms to\\ard hiuT, and says, softly : 
'' Hush, Brother." 

Then she discovers that he cannot stand, as he 
totters back and forth, and she steadies him with 
her girlish strength, that he may not fall over on 
the soft velvet of the carpet, as she continues ; 

" Papa threatened so, 1 sat up to \^-ait for you. 
Come softly, so no one can hear." 

" Threatened, did he ? Softly ! Waiting for 
me, was you ? There's for your waiting." 

A wild, pleading shriek. A heavy blow upon 
the fair young head, and the fiend of Rum had 
done its cruel worl-:. 



FASHIOx\ABLE C0NSP:QUENCES. 

Just around tlie corner of one of tlie streets 
crossing Jefferson Avenue, within sound of the 
mellow murmur of the river waters, just as the 
sun rays crept over tlie forest, and glistened across 
the dimpling waves, a worn and weary mother 
standing alone in a softly curtained, richly adorn- 
ed chamber, lifted tenderly from her throbbing 
heart the l)right young head of her darling boy — 
her beautiful first-born, laid it gently upon the soft 
laces of the pillow, kissed again and again the 
wasted cheek, touched softly with her trembling, 
jeweled fingers, the j ;t l^lack curls of hair; drop- 
ped slowly, slowly to her knees, and folding her 
hands over the breast of her dead idol, cried out 
jn her agony — cried out between her low, smoth- 
ered sobs : " Oh, God ! Thou who dost know a 
mother's heart, take into thy loving care my poor 
dear boy ! vSave my darling whom rum has ruin- 
ed, and temptation brought unto death." 

Oh ! ye mothers, with just such breaking hearts, 
hiding from agony behind crape veils and in gild- 
ed houses, let it be yours to save these boys, by 
purifying your social customs, and banishing from 
home and board, and social circle,, the tempter 
that lives but to destroy. 

FIRING UP THE TREE. 

Sitting at the tea-table one evening — father, 
mother, and the four children — we were suddenly 



startled by the report of a gun, and loud screeches 
ot laughter in the front yard. Father ran hur- 
riedly to the door, followed by mother with the 
baby in her arms, and Eddie, and Eunice,-and I 
clinging to her skirts. And lo ! the cause of our 
fright, was neighbor Tom, dressed in his regalia — - 
his old brown coat minus one sleeve, his ragged 
knee bound about by a red bandanna handker- 
chief, three or four rooster's feathers in his torn 
and jammed high black hat. 

Tom had come quietly into the yard, and sit- 
ting down under one of the large butternuts, 
pressed his feet against its base, and putting the 
mouth of his old gun against the bark between 
his feet, fired his gun, at the same time screeching 
with wild delight. 

As father looked out upon him, and exclaimed, 
" Why, Tom, is it you ? Tom, what's the trou- 
ble?" 

Tom answered : " Trouble, sir ? Trouble, did 
ye say?" 

And Tom trembled all over with joy, shaking 
the feathers in his old hat that had fallen to the 
back of his head, as he continued : 

" Trouble, sir ! Look at there, sir!" and he 
pointed up, far above bis head, where sat a little 
squirrel upon a bending bow, blinking back and 
forth at Tom, from his hiding place of green 
leaves, " Look-a-there, sir ! Guess I fetched him ! 
I fired all the way up the tree !" 

Once Tom was wise and good, but rum had 
made him so idiotic, he did not know how to aim 
at a squirrel. Do you want to be like Tom, 
boys? 



WHY IS IT? 

Can you tell nic why it is tlial we people of 
this world can never keep our thought in silence, 
and our lips from speaking guile just when the 
need of silence, and guileless words, is greatest ? 
Can you tell me why we are always listening to 
\ery one's word, and watching every expression 
and motion ? What prompts us to say wicked 
things just when we know they will be felt the 
most ? Why is it that when a stranger comes into 
some beautiful little village, that God has made 
like the Garden of Eden — no matter whether his 
polished manner and fine cloth hint of refined 
society and plenty of greenbacks, or whether his 
honest face and home-s-pun garb remind us of the 
backwoods — everybody is so curious? Why is 
it everybody has not only one word, Init a good 
many words to offer? Wliy is it when he needs, 
among strangers, courtesy and friendliness more 
than ever before, he is left alone, to go his own 
ways ; and unless he has breath, and strength, and 
moral courage enough to answer, or to ignore, the 
hun ireds of senseless questions ; and has also the 
power to receive without flinching, the shafts of 
sarcasm that are hurled at him ; and endure too, 
quietly, and with dignity, that delightful horror — 
village gossip — there is no place in that Arcadia 
where his feet may safely stand, or his head rest 
in peace ? 



Wliy is it that when one who lias more brains than 
fine clothes, is left in life's shadow, until his own 
brave heart has fought the way to sunshine, he is 
made so uncomfortable, when he emerges from 
the old darkness and begins to enjoy the radiance 
he has lighted around him ? While those of 
fuller pockets, but empty heads and vacant hearts, 
lead society by a thread, and are feted and flatter- 
ed and adored until they almost think that God's 
footstool was made for them alone ; and so begin 
to thank their Lord and Master that they are not 
like other men ? 

Why is it, if Dame Nature blesses one of her 
daughters with sparkling eyes, a pleasant voice, 
and a foot that needs a numbei- one boot, all the 
sisterhood are sure to find the voice so harsh, and 
declare that her little kid gaiter is just one-sixth 
too small ; and if at a f:ocial gathering, she speak 
to more than one of the opposite sex, why do the 
maids and the mothers all cry coquette, and seem 
so shocked at the admiration she wins ? 

W^hy is it that when a school boy, or a school 
miss, explains difficult mathematical problems, 
they are plied with questions as to who loaned 
them the use of his or her brains ? 

Why is it that we delight to scatter our thorns, 
rather than our roses ? Why is it that earth and 
no spot on it can be likened to the little "Maid's 
Arcadia?" Oh, why is it? Will you tell? 



LOOKING FOR SANTA GLAUS. 



Hark! hark! all ye people.^ hear 

Thal tinkle, tinkle, coming near ! 

Don't you know what that is? Say, 

Don't you know, that just to-day 

Old Santa Claus started from his snowy Ikhisc ? 

Wonder will he wear a furry blouse. 

Or lots of coats, and blankets too, 

That snow can't freeze or tumble through ? 

Well, don't you know, he started out 

To carry lots o' things about, 

All 'round the world, everywhere? any way 

Everywhere little girls and boys do stay. 

'Course lie couldn't go, in one day 

All 'round the world ; but he may 

Just stop here first. Hark ! now hark ! 

See that light through the black dark ! 

Hear the reindeer patter, patter ! 

Hear the clatter, clatter, clatter ! 

He's coming, sure as you live ! 
What do you want ? What will he gi\-e ? 
I want a drum, sounds with a whang— 
I want a gun, goes pop, pop — bang! 
What do you want, say ? Whew ! there 
He is, see I Feet, blankets, hair — 
Jolly old soul ! Won't hurt you nor me ; 
I 'aint afraid, I'll go see. 

How do you do, sir ? Love little boys ? 

Got lots pop bangs, drums, toys? 

Want to produce you, 'cause 

Ladies and peoples, I love good Santa Ciaus. 



THE VIOLET. 

Down within a shaded dell, 

Beside the old gray stone, 
A little violet doth dwell, 

Blue violet, alone. 

"Oh, wh.y am I forgot-ten ? 

Why am I left alone ? 
Why am I left forsaken 

Down by the old gray stone ?"' 
Softly doth sweet violet say, 

Here have I lived for many a day 
Close by the old gray stone. 

" And here shall I live, 

And my sweet fragrance give, 
'Till the days of my pleasure be o"er. 

And then, all alone 
Shall I leave the gray stone, 

And be buried beneath the cold snow 
And the snow-flakes shall fall. 

And the children will call 
Oh, the fun we may have with the !)eau- 
tiful snow. 

" For'they will not remember 

The poor little flowers 
That lie dying beneath the cold snov\- ! 

But the spring-time will come 
With her radiant hours. 

And the father's sweet heart 
With its infinite grace 

Will call back little violet's face. 
To sit in the light of his own 

In the dell, by the old gray stone." 

Copyrighted in 1881 by the Authors. 



I 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



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